


darkened halls and these obsidian towers

by crescendi



Category: Homestuck, Monument Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Character Death, Dead Dave Strider, Gen, Happy Ending, Low Fantasy, Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider are Twins, Telepathic Bond, interpret this as ship and i will steal your eyeballs, its happy ending i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18530917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescendi/pseuds/crescendi
Summary: Prince David is dead, and Princess Rosaria finally answers Skaia’s call.The sacred geometry hums under her feet, and the crowpeople shriek at her. She prefers the latter’s song.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by monument valley 
> 
> title from derse dreamers by horizon on youtube

**_hour one_ **

The arrow pierces Dave’s armor, cutting through the wards and sinking into the chink. The prince falls from his horse, falls into the dark soil, curling into himself, unable to move, made paralyzed by the pain.

Some soldier of the Veiled Kingdom recognizes their agony-twisted Prince's face, although streaked with filth and dirt. They drag him through the battle and to the medical tent. The healers know who he is the moment they lay eyes on them.

(And at the same moment the arrow sunk into David’s side, miles away, Rosaria’s unfailing hands fail her. They spasm and clutch, dropping her tome with a heavy thud, and she stumbles into a table, spattering ink over paper, pressing her palm into her aching side, and she knows something unthinkable has happened.)

 **_hour two_ ** 

The tent’s smell is strange—the reek of death mixed with the fresh scent of life magicks. The point fell just short of his lungs, but it is no promise of recovery. The healers cut the arrow’s shaft, and they fret over what to do with the head.

Dave’s head lolls on his shoulders and he mutters to no one. They assume he is delirious with pain.

(“Father,” she says, cold as steel in winter. “I will never forgive you.”)

**_hour three_ **

****The barbed broadhead is coated with poison. The race to save the prince’s life is between the venom and the healer’s magicks. They cup the crown of his head in their palms, touch their fingers on his chest, rest their hands that have seen as much blood as any soldier on his stomach.

Dave’s eyes are closed. His mind is far away from here.

(“Witch, I need your help.”

The green-eyed witch’s ancient eyes crinkle in the darkness, but there is no smile. She has birthed many children, but claims only a single granddaughter; the child who chose to learn some of the most powerful magic. One day, she will be a witch too.

“Only if you insist,” the witch says.

“Make no mistake. I would kill you if that would be the cost. I would kill my mother and father,” Rosearia says. The words pour out of her unbidden.

“You cannot save him.” A prophecy, a warning, or the ramblings of a senile woman, Rosaria cannot tell.)

**_hour four_ **

It is decided what remains of the arrow must be cut out of him, with heated blades placed only in the most experienced hands.

His eyes fly open as they dig into him, ripped out of his trance, and he screams into the gag.

(The horse the witch gave her moves faster than any she has ever ridden before, and she knows with horrible certainty it is still not fast enough. Something is wrong. Rosaria shivers. She knows this with horrible certainty—something is wrong.)

**_hour five_ **

Dave writhes, held down by a strong pair of hands on his shoulders. Tears roll down his cheeks, cutting stark lines through the grime on his face. His hands spasm and squeeze around nothing, nails digging crescents into his palms. His eyes roll in his head as he fights for consciousness. He knows his twin is coming, and he holds onto that hope like a light in cold darkness.

His side is a mess of red. The healer’s hands glow green. Their magic pulses through his body. The poisons darkens his veins. It will not be enough.

(She is crying.)

**_hour six_  **

Dave is awake, but barely so. He is weak from poison and blood loss. He cannot close his eyes. He must not let himself close his eyes. Rose is so close. She can feel her drawing near.

He can’t die alone. He is afraid to. And surrounded by these healers, their hands on his arms and chest and sides, whispering enchantments, that is truly alone.

Sweat-streaked, Rose throws open the tent curtains, steps over the other wounded bodies like they are merely dust. She lays eyes on her twin, sees the rise of his chest. Sees the redness, soaked through the bandages, on his side.

He smiles when he sees her.

**_hour seven_ **

“Hi,” Dave croaks.

Rose squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, helpless.

“Aw, don’t be. Ain’t nothing you could’ve done.”

That is a lie, or at least it is in her eyes. She blinks back more tears.

**_hour eight_ **

Dave wets his lips. He is horribly quiet. Rose’s heart jumps in her chest every time his chest sinks down.

**_hour nine_ **

“Don’t fall asleep! You can’t—fuck, please stay awake. Please. Please don’t leave me alone.”

**_hour ten_ **

“Rose?” Dave breathes, barely audible, after minutes of silence.

Rose raises her eyes to his. “Yes?” 

“Remember when we were little—this was when we still had long hair—and Dirk swore up and down that one of us stole the last of the apples?” Rose nods, the memory of the sunny day coming to her. “And you took the rap for it?” Rose nods again. “Yeah, that was me. Figured I should yet you know.”

Rose feels laughter rise up in her, but it sours in her throat. He’s slowly dying, and he’s still trying to make her feel better. Sad, she smiles. “You bastard,” she chokes out.

He chuckles.

**_hour eleven_ **

Rose shakes her head, violet eyes closed. “This is my fault.”

“Don’t blame yourself. This is my deathbed, remember?” He laughs, but it turns into a gasp of pain.

She doesn’t know how to put the guilt in her stomach into words, but knows he can feel it as if it is his own.

**_hour twelve_ **

Dave chews on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t have to tell you what I want you tell Karkat right?”

“No, I know what to say.” She can feel the love, the _it’s-not-your-faults_ , the _I-love-you_ , the _this-is-cliché-but-you’re-not-allowed-to-bes._

“Oh, good. Cool.”

Rose realizes this is the last time she will put Dave’s thoughts into words for him, because soon Dave won’t think anything at all.

**_hour thirteen_ **

“I’m scared, Rose.”

“I know.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t really have the right to, you know? I mean, you’re the one who's gonna be alone.”

“It’s not wrong to be scared of death, Dave.”

“Just feels selfish of me. I mean, you’re the one that’s gonna have to live without me.”

“It’s not. Selfish.”

Dave’s head lolls.

“I felt it, you know.”

“The arrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Rose—”

**_hour fourteen_ **

He never gets to finish.

His hands goes slack. His eyes glaze over. His chest stops moving.

Rose doesn’t bothering shaking him. She doesn’t say his name. She knows his heart has stopped. The presence of him that has always stayed in the back of her mind disappears, crumbles away, a comfort she did not know was there until it was gone.

And Rose…

Rose _screams_ , a haunting, grief-filled, cry that carries out of the tent and out into the still-ongoing battle. It is a primal shriek of grief and pain, chilling down right down to bone.

She bursts into tears, sobbing silently over her twin brother’s corpse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rosearia leaves the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> editing is for cowards

The Ruins of Skaia surround the Veiled Kingdom. They have been standing for generations. It is said they are a remnant from a more enlightened time, one where everyone was gifted with magic, without a bias towards women, and there were no schools of magic, for there was little need to study. One where towers reaching up into the sky could be seen in every city. Where every river ran clear and deep and clean. But of course, this is mere speculation. The likelihood the secrets of Skaia’s origins would ever be discovered were slim to none.

Few that explored the Ruins managed to get far, and even fewer came back at all. The path turned and twisted, setting you on a snarled, looping path. But it was said—through legend and myth, though, as anyone could tell you, both have their roots in fact—at the center of it, there was a beating Heart, and if you found this Heart, you will have a single wish granted, as law-defying as one could imagine.

Rose has studied the Ruins of Skaia. Not extensively, but enough to know it had undeniable, unquantifiable, power.

She does not attend the funeral, does not think she could lay eyes on her father without lunging for his throat, without digging her nails into his eyes. 

She comes after. It’s an unreasonably nice night. There is a troll there at Dave’s grave, kicking in the dirt. His head is bowed. There are tears in his eyes. He sees her.

“Come to pay your respects?” he chokes out.

She doesn’t reply. He sniffs, drags a palm across his eyes. “Right. You blame me. I should have protected. I should have been fucking there. I should have  _ protected  _ him, the stubborn asswipe.” He exhales, shoulders shuddering. “I didn’t even—” He starts sobbing in earnest now, ruddy tears pouring down his face. He keens his sorrow out, gasping and wailing.

Rose walks towards him, puts her arms around him. He cries into her shoulder. “Noble shit-for-brains,” he mumbled. “Why couldn’t he—should’ve—” He breaks off into wordless sobs again, throwing his arms around her, clinging close to her. She is, after all, a mirror image of her brother. She strokes his wiry hair, slowly. Gently. She is crying too.

“He said to tell you,” she says, softly. “It wasn’t your fault. And that it’s cliche, but he loves you, but you’re not allowed to be cliche.”

He started crying harder, pulls her in closer. He shakes his head against her. He looks thoroughly pathetic. If Rose was Dave, she would have offered him words of comfort. But Rose is not Dave, and Dave is dead in the ground.

* * *

She locks herself away in her room and throws herself into her books—books on the Ruins of Skaia. She sleeps little, barely picks at what Roxy brings up to her room.

_ Her  _ room. Not her’s and Dave’s. Not the twins. Just hers. It is terribly lonely, the link she’d never known was there until it was gone severed.

She does not speak to anyone. Does not write in her journals. She mourns. She studies. She reads about sacred geometry and the twisting paths of Skaia.

She does not talk to Roxy, does not take her eyes off of the words of her books. She looks thoroughly a wretch, hair unbrushed, bruise-purple bags under her eyes, sallow skin, clothes in a state of distress, makeup long abandoned.

“Dirk would love to talk to you, you know,” Roxy says, lingering, softly, brushing their fingers across Rose’s shoulder. Rose doesn’t give any sign that she hears or feels Roxy. “We miss you.”

Rose is silent.

“Dave’s death was hard on all of us.”

Rose stops.

“It doesn’t help that it feels like we’ve lost our sister too.” Tears are shining in their eyes, reading to fall.

Rose stands bolt uprights, starts pushing Roxy out of her room. Tears shine in her eyes too. Rose shakes her head, white hair brushing her chin, lip trembling. Roxy lets themself be pushed out, backing up step by step. She points to the door, now crying opening, tears streaming down her face.

Roxy stands in the door frame. “He was our brother too, you know,” they say. “He didn’t only belong to you.” Then, they turn and leave, closing the door behind them.

She can’t stop shaking. She collapses into sobs.

She leaves the following night and does not leave a note behind.

* * *

The way is dark. Rose cannot see. She can hear, though. She can hear the rushing of the wind (though can feel none of her skin) and the fall of her own footsteps. She knows, rationally, it should not be this dark. She knows the sun should have already risen, but when the casts her eyes up to the sky, it is just as lightless as anywhere else around her.

Then, without warning, her foot falls into empty space, and Rose stumbles back, heart leaping in her chest. The journey into Skaia is different for everyone. She knows she cannot be prepared for everything, but that her first brush with oblivion had been so soon was...jarring.

Perhaps the Ruins did not want her here.

Perhaps the Ruins could go fuck themselves.

Gritting her teeth, Rose turns to the left, and, carefully feels if the path continues in that direction.

It does not. The right is equally unforgiving.

It appears the only way to go is back from where she came, but that is not an option as far as she is concerned. So she waits.

And then, two chords, coming from everywhere at once. It lasts only briefly, and Rose realizes, though she has the memory of it, she did not hear them.

There is a vast displacement of air, and the sound of something great moving.

Rose puts one foot in front of her. Solid ground where there was previously none.

She keeps on moving. There is no sound but her footsteps and the howling wind. When her foot hits stairs, she climbs them, climbs them until the ache in her muscles seems far away, until she can see a pink-green not-sky above her.

The wind hits her face, stirs her hair. She does not know how long she stays there, looking at the strange not-sky, cold and alone in this world, but it is long enough another memory of a note to resurface and the ground to tremble under her feet, like the contractions of the earth giving birth to the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> davekat but only for the angst
> 
> also nonbinary roxy yeahh


End file.
